


Minus Twelve Hours and Counting

by PalenDrome (nerdherderette)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anal Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Five Stages of Grief, Geographical Isolation, Hallucinations, Isolation, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-09-06 01:42:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8729701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdherderette/pseuds/PalenDrome
Summary: Kylo always suspected that his hubristic pride and obsession with the girl were iniquities for which he must atone. But as the Finalizer hurtles towards the uninhabited planet of Janus, the errant Knight wonders whether his redemption will come through sacrifice or salvation. [excerpt]:A warm puff of breath skates across his cheek as pale arms encircle his waist. It smells spicy and faintly sweet, an intoxicating mix which normally causes Kylo's belly to flutter in anticipation, but which rouses him tonight with a growing unease."Don't," Hux murmurs as Kylo subconsciously retreats. The word is loaded, hovering somewhere between an order and a plea.  "You'll be back before the end of the month."  He quickly tempers the melancholy of his statement with the reassurance of his lips, tasting of honey and tea.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Serenechemnerd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serenechemnerd/gifts).



> I was so excited to get your prompts of _Isolation_ and _Mills and Boon Prose_. I hope you don't mind that I expanded the M+B Prose to include Purple Prose. Your prompts made me approach this story from a completely different place from where I normally write; I hope you enjoy it!  <3
> 
> -Artwork by [**_Elithien_**](https://www.tumblr.com/search/elithien)  
> 

 

He breathes it in--the stars saturating the sky, unfettered by distractions such as sunlit planets or their moons, their bright lights unscattered by atmospheric ether. The vision of the starfield from this vantage point never ceases to amaze him. The celestial dust laps softly at his skin, its gentleness punctuated by the occasional heat of a nova so intense he could burst from the potency of it all. It fills him with its magnificent beauty, so heady and intoxicating, yet at the same time making him feel infinitesimally small.

Footsteps fall behind him, their muted tones breaking him of his reverie.

"Leave it," Kylo whispers, without turning around. Hux hesitates, then keeps the window's setting at full transparency as he proceeds to dim the lights.

Kylo tries not to dwell on the numbers which leap off the datapad that Hux neatly positions on his well-organized desk, but his traitorous mind has already done the math.

 _ **23:00.**_ Minus twelve hours, and counting...

A warm puff of breath skates across his cheek as pale arms encircle his waist. It smells spicy and faintly sweet, an intoxicating mix which normally causes Kylo's belly to flutter in anticipation, but which rouses him tonight with a growing unease.

"Don't," Hux murmurs as Kylo subconsciously retreats. The word is loaded, hovering somewhere between an order and a plea. "You'll be back before the end of the month."  He quickly tempers the melancholy of his statement with the reassurance of his lips, tasting of honey and tea.

Kylo stills. He wonders if Hux says such things because he believes them to be the truth, or because he needs to deny it. Or perhaps he overestimates Kylo's fragile strength, or underestimates Snoke's illimitable malice.

He wish he didn't know with such absolute certainty that Hux's conviction is staggeringly misplaced.

There is a melange of sounds: the growl of heavy, synthetic fabrics; the whisper of bespoke wools; the melodic clink of metal; and the thunk of heeled leather as they gather on the Veshok floor. Green eyes flicker with something resembling sorrow before they're quickly hooded, as pale fingers trace the margins of Kylo's fractured skin.

He no longer feels the burn. Even fresh, his wounds never hurt as much as Hux's disappointment over the destruction of his beloved Starkiller, or the silent censure of Snoke. Hux eventually forgave him--Kylo is lying in his bed after all, the General's lips pressed against his neck, but Snoke's apparent detachment leaves him in a state of perpetual unrest.

Perhaps it is to be a mission of reconditioning. To rid himself of the Light. Of exorcising The Girl, her flitting presence awakening something in him long suppressed.

He pushes her out; he doesn't want to think about her intrusive presence, or why Snoke's orders were purposefully vague, or why the duration of his expiation was left unsettled. He focuses on the man currently straddling his knees, staring at the constellation of freckles dusting his pale skin, tasting lips which are at once cruelly demanding, yet yieldingly soft.

He turns over. Hux's sheets have the clean, antiseptic smell of military-issue soap, overlaid with a hint of sandalwood and pine. Kylo inhales deeply; the crisp scent spirals from his nares and wraps itself around the his bittersweet memories until they remain forever entwined.

Kylo moans, lifting his hips as Hux presses him down. He usually submits rapidly under Hux's firm hand, but tonight there is a part of him that remains uncomfortably untethered and adrift.

He feels his cheeks being pried apart, followed by the cool slick of lube. It's all wrong--it's too slow. Too forgiving. Too wet.

"No more," he pleads. "I need you."

_To feel you._

Overly-perceptive green eyes sweep over him. Hux bites his lower lip, nodding once as he shifts, his gorgeous cock breaching that tight ring of muscle as he buries himself in a single, painful stroke.

Kylo welcomes the roughness and the stretch, the burning and the pain. The sting of Hux's balls as they slap rapidly against his ass. The slick of their sweat, the heavy musk of their sex, the ache from Hux's fingers as they progressively mark the sides of his hips.

He tentatively reaches out with the Force, unable to resist granting himself this one last gift. He quickly pushes past remembrances of their initial hostility and mutual distrust, until he finally locates that which he seeks.

He lingers on that night of evaporating inhibitions. Revels at the General's surprise, pupils dilating as Ren dives in to taste those brandy-flavored lips. Feels a sense of pride at Hux's unraveling, as a kiss turns into two months of glorious and insatiable fucks.

A sound snaps him back to the present, and he reels from the surprise and the magic which fells him when the words _I love you_ slip out of Hux's mouth.

He retreats behind the growing desperation of his lover's thrusts, choosing to memorize the way those dainty limbs shudder, the lines of his throat working with each guttural cry. Kylo meets him stroke for stroke, his body surging as he becomes suffused in a sea of white. He arches and keens, unmanned by his quickening breaths, reduced to closed eyes and an open heart, until he erupts with the intensity of a thousand starry nights.

Everything slows in their post-coital haze--faces lax, mouths silent, respirations evening as they lie on rumpled sheets, long limbs intertwined. Hux remains so still that Kylo thinks he must have given in to the welcome numbness of sleep.

Kylo's breath catches when he feels the touch of a hand curling hesitantly over his own. He knows that the gentle pressure is meant to be reassuring, but its transience brings a painful lump to his throat.

He swallows his tears and squeezes his eyes, and tries to hold on tight.

 

**.~oOo~.**

_**Day 000** _

It is with little ceremony that he disembarks, dumped on the fringes of interstellar space. He sets his haversack down and glances towards the sun. The _Finalizer_ is already a speck in the distance. He stares at it through the narrowed openings of his mask, benumbed until its fading silhouette is swallowed by the blood-red sky.

He scans his surroundings, noting the greenery beyond the open plain. It is undeniably hot yet the territory is unknown, so he silently suffers under the heft of his raiments.

There should be at least seven hours of remaining light, enough to perform a quick reconnaissance before establishing camp. A line of trees greets him, their trunks shooting tall and thin towards the rufous sky. Although he is not familiar with them all, he recognizes several Ampohrs mixed with Byrelwoods, along with a smattering of Keet.

The canopy provides a welcome shade from the unrelenting sun. The air is thick and heavy--his clothes cling, sticky with his sweat as he drowns in the irritating buzz of verminous wings. He grunts in satisfaction as his lightsaber makes quick work of the tangled thicket. His muscles protest occasionally at the stuttered movements, so contrary to the elegance with which he usually wields his blade.

After several hours, the sun dips halfway towards the horizon, and the leafy greens make way for a vermilion red. His limbs awaken from their stupor, surging on renewed adrenaline as the air shifts and caresses him with a rare breeze.

Dense vegetation suddenly gives way to scree. He skitters, loosening a cascade of orphaned pebbles which tumble down the slope, until they are swallowed by the roaring waters a thousand meters below.

He closes his eyes, breathing in the sharp scent of river and citrus which wafts from the valley floor. Threads of the Force embrace him; he yields to their presence, his aching feet uncovering previously hidden footholds as he makes his way towards the lush dale.

The water sparkles, clear and cascading over a path gouged and abraded by glaciers from years past. He scans it for potentially unpleasant life forms before disturbing the mirrored surface with a rock. The liquid ripples and swells, but the only creatures which manifest are several curious harpercod and trout.

He removes his helmet. The sunlight bathes his face, immersing him in its honeyed glow. He rejoices in its warmth as the remaining layers are quickly shed, the rays bestowing a tenacious kiss upon his pallid skin.

There is a caw overhead. A raven, strong and sleek, lands on a bough near the shore. Its obsidian feathers glint iridescently under the water's prism as it tilts its head and eyes him with amusement. They continue to gauge one another until Kylo bends, unnerved by its incessant stare. He retaliates with a small flick of his fingers, his attentions concentrated on its perch. The wood dips precariously and the raven takes to the skies with an offended cry.

He rinses away the sweat and the ache as the river dilutes and eventually rids him of the stink. He looks up; there is perhaps another hour before the sun exchanges postion with the moons, and there is nary a cloud in the sky. He slips into a tunic and decides to look for more secluded shelter on higher ground in the morning as he establishes camp on the riverbank for the night.

He builds a fire and boils a pot of river water before setting off to forage for food. He hesitates when he discovers a copse of Sohli bushes. He can hear his uncle's voice as he recounts his training days on Dagobah and flinches at his own youthful fascination and naïveté. He pushes aside his guilt at the recollection, resuming his efforts to strip the bark; it will keep and travel well, and provide sustenance in a pinch. He also catches several fish, and delights when he spies some sweetberries, the ripe fruit dangling from a vine that chokes the trunk of a tree.

That evening, he contents himself with the warmth and sounds of the crackling fire. His belly is full, the meal simple, yet more primitively satisfying than the freeze-dried or overly-elaborate offerings of his recent past.

He lets out a huff as he thinks upon his training, first as a Padawan, then as a Knight, and most recently as an apprentice of Snoke. He has experienced adversity. He has endured inhospitable environments. He has embraced solitude. He will renew his dedication with his latest task, rediscover his purpose, and reaffirm his allegiance to the Order.

He smiles to himself, his formerly milky skin cracking from his widened grin and reprimanding him with a sting. The light of the double moon is luminous. One is slightly smaller than the other but equally as bright. He wonders what Hux is up to. Has he buried himself in his work with a purposeful fervor, in an effort to forget? Has he fallen back on the cigarettes that he's tried time and again to quit, but which he unsuccessfully hides?

Is he staring out his window, thinking of him?

The shadows from the trees paint long lines onto the ground. The whirring of cicadas is suddenly interrupted by the plaintive caw at his side.

The raven alights. It hops several times, nudging Kylo's hand. In it are the remains of his trout, perhaps enough for two measured bites. He throws it into the tall grass, the white flesh landing softly before it is plucked up and brought into flight.

He sprawls out under the incandescent light of the double moons and places his tracking belt to the side. The red light emits a steady, unwavering glow. He stares out into the stars, the endless constellations and infinite galaxies replacing the sterile halls of the Destroyer as he closes his eyes.

And for the first time in twenty-four hours, finally sleeps.

 

**.~oOo~.**

_**Day 020** _

The dust swirls, red clouds billowing as a half-eaten claw sits fifteen meters from where it was thrown.

Kylo grunts as the raven looks at him reproachfully from the charred remains. Roasted Nuna tends to lose its appeal when eaten daily for nearly three weeks straight.

He looks down at his log book, ticking off yet another mark. Twenty days of solitude. Nearly three weeks of sunburned skin and parched throats and bitter bark and muddy trout and sinewy Nuna and stiff limbs and a screaming conscience and of wondering whether this would finally be the day that he finally receives some form of communication, whether through a ping on his tracker or a shifting in the Force.

He grows restless. Tired of waiting, no more than a torpified clod on the edge of a riverbank, idle as the surrounding world rushes by.

He needs to move. He swings his long legs and pounds the ground, the unruly vegetation crunching under his heels as he ascends the rocky wall. His lungs burn with desperation, replaced by a keening disappointment as he makes his way towards the unforgiving sun.

He summits yet his goal remains frustratingly out of reach even as it sinks into the horizon with a purplish, orange glow. He throws down his haversack, feeling strangely bereft. He hears a dull clunk as the bag opens, the tie unraveling and silver lines denting as his helmet begins to roll.

He reaches. Perhaps it was a slip of his hand or a catch of his foot, but he ends up watching with a sickening fascination as the mask skitters and turns, pneumatic hinges hissing, black metal tumbling down the cliff before coming to rest on an overhang below.

It bobbles, caught on a twisted vine. Matte black and dull grey under the dying rays of the sun. He toys with the Force, the gnarled creeper lifting as the helmet wobbles and lifts.

It is retrievable. Perhaps through use of the Force, or with pure physicality, or by a combination of both.

An irrational heat churns through his gut and bubbles forth. It was because of his gifts that he relinquished his family and placed his trust in Snoke, embracing his supposedly predestined path.

A path to some _kriffing_ overgrown, uninhabited no-being's-land.

He never asked for the visions, or the power his talents promised. They came fraught with expectations heaped upon him from his family, or from those who professed to know him. He felt at times less of a person than a thing to be used, or worse, inherently feared.

He sinks, his legs folding underneath him in defeat. Who in his life had ever seen him? Hux, he once thought, but as the space of time and distance yawns further between them, he grows progressively unsure.

 _The Girl._ She had seen through him. Recognized something within him.

Something _familiar._

He bows his head, his ebony locks curtaining half-lidded eyes. The energy threads around him, soft and tentative at first, growing bolder as it surrounds him, suffusing him with its glowing light.

_Ben._

He runs. Helmet forgotten, eyes stinging, chased by the threat of failure, a reminder of his utter weakness as the light continues to reach out towards him, entangling with and pulling at the darkness in his gut, twisting around his consciousness and suffocating him with spurious illusions of its comfort.

 

**.~oOo~.**

_**Day 060** _

Three weeks. Three weeks he had lasted, before realizing that perhaps he had been a bit rash.

He breathed a sigh of relief as the voice modulator sputtered while the servomotors rotated and opened with a groan. The matte black surface was now pitted and torn, and while the dented shape no longer fit, he found a new place for the rescued helmet by his side, the unfathomable eye slits positioned to monitor his every move.

He lost focus, but only temporarily. He closes his eyes, feeling the familiar thrum of the saber's handle in his fist as the blade ignites with its throbbing, serrated edge. He finds his center, his energy expanding then contracting, balancing the line between the light and the dark to make an indivisible whole.

He will be faster. Stronger. More purposeful. An apprentice worthy of Snoke's trust, and a partner deserving of Hux's absolution and his bed.

It is during times like these that he is at his best. When his mind is unfettered, his reflexes honed, his movements a conduit for the Dark Side's flow. When he feels the power rippling through his pores, sharp and acrid, compelling the trees to bow and the insects to quiet and the waters to slow.

It is at night when he is at his worst. When he is at his loneliest. It is at this time that he is most susceptible, the fissures in his resolve permitting intrusive, crippling thoughts. When he thinks about his former self, of the pain of his scars, and of her raw talent and the fierceness of her light.

He looks down at his markings. The scratches have grown bolder and more uneven in their rows, four lines of three groups each, clustered in fives.

Sixty days since landing.

Zero steps closer to leaving.

He pulls up his cowl. The nights grow cold, the fish less plentiful, the vegetation less green. The sun rises later and arcs closer to the ground.

He needs to move. Soon the ledge will grow too slippery to descend. The valley is too open, and the wind can be brutal when it roars angrily through the gorge. His rations dwindle; he will need to find a new location to gather and store.

He grabs a piece of Sohli, his tongue moistening the tough covering as he begins to chew. A bitterness assaults him, followed by the surprising flare of heat. He spits it out, his eyes widening in horror at the dots of red and frothy saliva which sullies the half-chewed suberin.

Not Sohli. **_Thyssel bark._** He thought the hallucinogen was only found on Haruun Kal, and now he had chewed it, swallowed it _raw_...

He furiously downs the remaining water in his flask, jamming his finger down his throat in a crude effort to gag. Too late; his body shudders and loosens under the thyssel's grip as colored lines rise from the ground and surround him in the moonlit night, the babbling of the river metamorphosing into a woman's seductive coo.

_Ben._

He recoils as she approaches, unrelenting in her stride. His gut clenches--he's overheating, the spice inflaming his system, igniting him from inside. She illuminates him with her brilliance and her strength, her hair haloed in a crown of gold.

He calls out to Hux, drawing from his reserves. She bats at the image, Hux's red hair and green eyes shimmering uncertainly until he nearly breaks.

_I know you._

Her scent rises, hovering around him.

_You belong with us._

She bathes him in her sweet breath and in the gentleness of her curves, her touch soft yet so incendiary that it burns. She murmurs his given name, the honeyed words awakening an aching desire and knowing heartbreak that infects his soul. It shakes him like a lover's angry insufflations, prickling his skin and turning it a crimson red.

Two pairs of lips descend upon him--one strong, one soft, each equally devouring. Hands paw at his torso and grip his cock; he arches, surrendering to the sensation, so agonizingly sweet. He welcomes the possessiveness of their touch, the feel of their bodies angrily rutting against him, their hypnotic colors melding into a whiteness more brilliant than the sun.

He can't choose. He needs them both--he craves their love, suspires their approval. He tries to embrace them, but the spread of his limbs proves too short. Wetness clings to his lashes and the heavens heed his cry, filling his nostrils with the scent of petrichor, the dampness clinging to his cheeks and soddening his clothes as the weight of its escalating pitter-patter hits the ground.

He wants, his body screaming for them both. Their tongues push into him, filling his orifices, plundering his mouth and choking his cock, sucking at his conscience and swallowing his soul. He groans, filling them with his seed and with the magnitude of his loneliness until nothing remains but an empty shell.

When he wakes, his eyes are red and swollen, and crusted over with something more than just the bitter disappointment of his sleep.

 

 

**.~oOo~.**

_**Day 120** _

The scent of pine and smoke fills the small space, the woodsy smell unable to fully mask the stench of decay. He steps out, his exhalation stuttering at the surprising blast of frigid air.

He frowns into the skyline. There is a peculiar absence of sound. He listens for a bird's cry or perhaps its oscillating wings, only to encounter a vacuum of soaring movement and flow.

He draws his robes close as he shivers. He thumbs the placket absentmindedly, the material now threadbare and inadequate against the growing cold.

Frustration settles upon him like an unwelcome cloak. He has trained tirelessly. Grown faster. Stronger. Meditated, and become more self-aware.

Yet silence remains his only reward.

When time ticks and the world shifts yet one remains stagnant, cognizance can be a double-edged sword.

The flesh of the howlrunner is still warm as his blade moves downward, slicing through the layers of tough connective tissue as the forelegs are finally freed. Kylo lets out a grunt as he carefully removes the wolf's pelt. The skin stretches handsomely across the board; once dried, the fur's thickness will be a welcome insulation in the days to come.

He returns to the flesh, grimacing at its gamey, putrid smell. He hammers at the sinewy muscle in an effort to tenderize it before spit roasting the slab over the fire. There looks to be at least twenty pounds of edible meat; with what he has already stored, he should have enough victuals to carry him through the next lunar cycle.

His body sags at the sun finally sets. Night brings along with it a certain bleakness. He sinks onto his knees, his head bowed. For the past two weeks, he has sought the comforting presence of another human through his use of the Force.

On certain days, a whisper of a connection is all that he needs. Hux stands on the command bridge, his posture characteristically straight and strong. Despite not being classified as a Force-sensitive, Kylo sees how the General's shoulders hitch upon sensing his gentle intrusion. Realizes the moment his lover becomes conscious of Kylo's gossamer thread.

On other days, he requires something more tangible. The Girl sits in a chair once occupied by someone from his distant past, in a cockpit which he recognizes with heartbreaking familiarity. The Wookie is by her side, as is her companion from the forest, both battered but still alive. She reaches back, her hazel eyes filled with something resembling sadness as her hands hover hesitantly over the ship's controls.

On this day, he grows increasingly anxious when he reaches out for Hux, only to find the image slipping away through his fingers like the desert sands. He stares frantically at the emptiness next to him, at the space where the General would normally be.

He can fix it. He digs out the last piece of Thyssel bark and breaks it in two. Aware of the risks to his mind if consumed raw, he shoves the larger section under the dying flames, careful to avoid the path of the howlrunner's drippings.

He bites, succumbing to the welcome inertia as his teeth and fingers begin to stain red. Hux soon materializes, his expression inscrutable and green eyes glowing. His polished boots fall noiselessly against the leaves, and a leather-clad hand brushes against Kylo's eager skin.

 _Hux._ The name slips from Kylo's lips. Kylo's eyes fly open at Hux's surprising hiss, but the General's attentions have turned, his handsome profile twisted in displeasure as he witnesses The Girl's approach.

Even in the stark landscape, she is beautiful. Freckles dot her cheeks, swimming on a tanned curve flushed pink, a tattoo of stardust on her soft skin. Her smile is both maternal and seductive as she presses him against her bosom, delighting as he breathes a sigh of relief.

He turns, flicking his tongue and tracing the curve of her breast, groaning as her nipple strains and peaks underneath his chin. She steps back, her mouth parted and her pupils darkened with desire. He scrambles towards her, the fire casting warped shadows across his path.

His skin is on fire with something more than just the bark. He claws at his clothes, feverish despite the cold which lashes out against his skin.

The air fills with the acrid smell of their antagonism. He hears the sharp intake of their breaths as they lunge towards him, snarling, tongues licking his lips, mouths kissing his back, all the while marking him with the sharpness of their teeth. Hands splay across his chest, entangle in his hair, forcing him back, not letting go. They fill him up with their fingers and their fists, shoving him against their buttocks and their tits, devouring him with promises for his salvation. The sky turns purple as their anger roils, and he clings to them desperately as he yields the remains of his control.

She pulls him in, his face buried in the folds of her cunt. Her hips tilt as she grinds against him, her juices slicking his skin as she fills his nose and mouth with her taste. A hand grips his ass, prying open his cheeks. It circles his hole until he's suddenly fucked, the intrusive digit replaced by a thick cock's burning slide and the sting of a leathered palm trouncing his skin.

Their grunts fill the air, moans and curses which drown out his own cries. He can't see them; his face remains buried amongst their wiry hairs and velvety folds, his soul held hostage as each fights for his control.

_Fuck me._

_Choose me._

_Fuck him._

_Fuck you._

It's too much. Somewhere between the pain of the too-bright light and the endless depths of the dark, he explodes.

　

**.~oOo~.**

_**Day 180** _

The bitter wind blows through the open dale, the river's meandering path weightened down by the icy floes.

His face is sickly pale: Lips cracked, cheeks sunken, eyes hollowed and shadow-rimmed from weeks of hunger and insufficient sleep. His hands shake: fumbling, bumbling frozen stiff as he rearranges the fur and wool which repeatedly slips off his haggard frame.

He doesn't cry. The biting cold turns the promises of tears into frosty shards, and he has long learned of the futility of such sentiments.

He trudges forward. He is weighty, heavy. So sleepy, his legs seemingly rooted to the ground. It would be so easy to lay down. To give in, just let go.....

His haversack sways with each step, loosely flying upward with an errant gust of wind. The sky is a sheet of pinkish grey, and the sun is as brilliant as it is lacking in warmth.

He wills his limbs to move forward. One last push, although in which direction, he no longer knows. There is nothing left for him here, in this infinite landscape. The boney remains of the howlrunner sit in a cave seven kilometers away, licked completely clean.

He sees something in the distance. A piece of fabric perhaps, or an abandoned tool. It is small, but its dark color stands out against the blinding whiteness of the otherwise unbroken expanse of snow.

Perhaps he had known. Suspected the answer, in the deepest recesses of his soul. With each deliberate step a detail slowly emerges. A broken wing. An unseeing eye. A shattered avian beak, the awkward twist of a throat that would cry no more.

He feels himself sinking, feels the creak in his weakened knees, fleetingly buttressed by the corded layers of a uniform held over from a life a long, long time ago.

He is neither a monster nor a savior.

Neither cowardly nor brave.

Neither Ben nor Kylo.

Neither light nor dark.

He falls down on his knees as he realizes that he is all of the above.

It is with a surprising steadiness that he pulls out the last bit of Thyssel bark from the pocket of his robes. It is possible that even on that last night on the _Finalizer_ , that he had known it would come down to this.

The snow, so hard and unforgiving, cradles his body reassuringly as he begins to chew. The spice quickly fills his mouth and addles his brain. It is unpleasantly tough, and it takes some effort.

Until it doesn't.

He rests his head on the crystalline bed. He cracks open an eye, watching as the frost coats his lashes and his cheeks, marveling at the silver clouds of warm breath which puff delicately from his lips. The blinking from his tracking belt slowly fades, its brightness replaced by the carmine spittle from his mouth.

The pale blush of the sun. The sparkling white of the snow. The beauty of deep, virescent eyes and tanned, rubescent cheeks. The gunmetal grays and gridelin flames and citrine yellows of a descending ship as it suffuses him in its lights.

He smiles as he closes his eyes to the world's loveliness, and his breath slowly stills.

**Author's Note:**

> *Come say "hi" on [Tumblr!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/nerdherderette)


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